Page 43 of The Haunted Hotel

“What happened to Morgan’s dad?” I ask softly.

“Aneurysm,” he replies as he traces his fingers over the blanket. “A ticking time bomb in his head none of us knew about. He stood up from a chair and the next thing we knew, he was falling. He was dead before he hit the ground. There was nothing that could have saved him, they told me, and that he wouldn’t have felt it. He was only twenty-nine years old. I was still grieving my Edie, I’d only lost her the winter before, and then I was burying my child.”

“I’m so sorry.” I reach out and lay my hand over his, feeling the dry, papery skin stretched thin over his fragile bones.

I’m surprised when he lifts his other hand and lays it over the top of our joined hands, patting my skin, but he doesn’t let go.

“I didn’t cope well, shut myself in my room,” he admits. “Lillian said she was taking Morgan to see her parents, and she never brought him back. By the time I’d pulled myself together enough to call and ask to see him, it had been over a year and Lillian had already met that American fella. She said Morgan didn’t remember a lot of what happened. She’d had him in therapy and apparently the doctor or whoever they were saidthat he’d suppressed a lot of his memories from the grief. Lillian thought it might be better for him to have a clean break and start afresh.”

“But that’s terrible.” I frown. “He was still your family.”

He shrugs. “Like I said, Lillian never really adapted to life here. I think she did love my son, and lord knows he was dazzled by her, but I don’t know if their marriage would have survived long term. She allowed Morgan to keep my son’s name even when she married her second husband. I guess I just didn’t have it in me to fight her. I started thinking maybe he would be better off somewhere new and exciting. Somewhere filled with adventure and opportunities instead of being surrounded by sadness like I was. In the end, I retreated further and further into my rooms because there wasn’t anything out there for me anymore.”

“That’s not true,” I tell him softly. “We’re here. We can’t ever replace your wife or your son, but we’re your family and we love you. That’s why we’re all still here.”

He reaches up and pats my cheek. “You’re such a good lad. I hope life is kinder to you than it has been to me.”

“Mr Ashton-Drake.” I draw in a breath. “You still have Morgan.”

“It’s too late. We’re strangers.”

“It’s never too late. He’s here, isn’t he?” I reply. “No matter the reasons that brought him here, he’s here now. Why don’t you spend some time getting to know him, get to know the man he is now?”

He shakes his head. “What’s the point? Like his mother, he won’t stay.”

“But—”

“Nope, no point, might as well leave things the way they are.” He releases my hands and pulls the blanket from his knees, thentakes the photo album from me and tucks it reverently back into the drawer. “I’m tired now, I think I’ll go to bed.”

There isn’t anything I could say to him right now that would help, but I at least feel like I understand him a little better. I rise from the footstool and cross the room to the door, with him shuffling along behind me to see me out.

I open the door and step out into the hallway. “Goodnight, Mr Ashton-Drake.”

“You may as well call me Cedric,” he says gruffly.

“Really?” I turn and beam at him.

“Might as well.” He shrugs, and I hear him mutter sourly as he closes the door, “I’ll probably be dead soon anyway.”

13

The sudden and very loud ringing of my phone startles me out of a dream, which must have been a good one considering how hard my dick is. This is not my regular morning wood at all; my painfully throbbing cock practically has its own heartbeat.

I look towards the nightstand where I left my phone, fully intending to decline the call and ignore whoever is calling me at… well, whatever hour this is. I have no clue. Thanks to the winter months and the heavy drapes, the room is still in almost complete darkness except for a slim shaft of pale light peeking through the tiny gap between the curtains. Fumbling at the nightstand, I frown when a, the insistent ringing won’t quit, and b, my hand keeps coming up empty.

I roll over onto my stomach in order to reach further but end up groaning loudly when my aching cock is crushed underneath me. Caught somewhere between pain and the need to hump the bed like a horny teenager, I lift my head and squint through the darkness, trying to locate the lit screen of my phone.

The goddamn thing won’t stop ringing and it’s making my head hurt. I shuffle a little closer and peer over the side on thebed to see if it’s fallen down but I can’t make anything out in the gloominess of the room.

My head spins, and after a second, I realise I’m not suddenly developing vertigo. The sheets beneath me are moving and taking me with them. It feels like someone has grasped the sheet and is trying to yank it out from under me, but instead I slide across the bed. The next thing I know I hit the hard floor, knocking my elbow, which sends pain radiating up my arm. I flail as I’m buried under an avalanche of sheets, blankets, and a rather heavy quilt.

“Oww,” I groan into the now silent room. The phone, wherever it is, has now rung off. I rest my head against the floor and try to ignore the pounding in my temples. I’m not sure if it’s a combination of stress and jet lag, or if I’m unlucky enough to be coming down with something, but my head hurts.

I probably should haul myself to my feet and remake the bed, but honestly, I’m still a little disoriented. How the hell did I end up down here? I wasn’t leaning that far over the bed, certainly not enough to take every stitch of bedding with me on my swan dive to the freezing floor.

I close my eyes and am just dozing off when that loud and insistent ringing starts up once more, this time accompanied by a buzzing. Tilting my head in the direction of the sound, I see my phone under the bed, the screen lit up as it vibrates across the floor.

Frowning, I wonder how the hell it ended up deep under the heavy old four-poster bed.